Ichabod Crane stood naked before the mirror. He eyed his body critically, turning this way and that, noting the latest bruises, old scars and new wounds. He was still leanly muscular after these eleven months of regular meals - liberally supplemented with donut holes and impossibly sweet bananas. His hair was let loose from its queue and still damp from the shower. He'd asked for a boar brush but Miss Mills instead brought him a Shampoo with Detangling Conditioner. It was heavily scented with a poor imitation of verbena and limes. Crane frowned at his reflection. Everything in this time was heavily scented. While the marvelously hot showers were an indulgence he allowed himself, he could not abide this ... this frippery. When next he thought of it, he would insist on the boar brush. He would not be made a dandy. There was work to do. There was no time for sweets and perfume.
He was not a Frenchman, for God's sake.
And, it seemed to Crane, that Miss Mills preferred him before she purchased all of these bathing lotions and Shampoos and deodorant sticks. It didn't take a cryptographer of his caliber to discern that. When they sat next to one another at the archive, she occasionally leaned into him, her nostrils flaring delicately, breathing deeply, inhaling – nay, savoring – his scent. It was profoundly intimate, that.
Something a lover might do.
His eyes dropped quickly to his manhood then flinched away. His face flushed a bit - a conditioned response brought about by the maddeningly oblique and exceedingly embarrassing conversation Crane had with his father when he was but a boy of thirteen. After they married, Katrina had wickedly offered him her sidesaddle and teased him about his lanky frame, insisting that the massive amounts of food he consumed went to feeding his member, while the rest of his body starved.
Indeed, when once Crane, the Lieutenant and Miss Jenny emerged from the tunnels soaked to the skin with demon blood, all of his particulars were clearly defined by his clinging, wet trousers. There was a long moment of silence. The Lieutenant had the decency to avert her eyes while he swiftly buttoned his coat but Miss Jenny openly gaped until her sister kicked her sharply on the shin. As they made their way back to the police automobile, Crane plainly heard Miss Jenny whisper, "It's always the tall, skinny ones."
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A/N: I promise that there is more to this!